what I’m looking for, and hold it out to her. “As a matter of fact, while we were waiting for you, I found this copy of Police Chief magazine on the coffee table in the waiting room.”
I hold it out to her, hoping she won’t accuse me of petty larceny. She doesn’t make a move to take it, so I place it on the conference table. Not guilty.
“There’s a whole feature article about police lineups. I leafed through it while we were waiting. It includes a lot of background about photo array evidence. You know?”
I look at her encouragingly, as if I really want her to answer. She doesn’t say a word, but gives me a bitter little gesture to continue.
I flip open the magazine and point to a page. “After conviction, photos are public records. You have to keep them. And you have to let us see them.” I shrug, to let her know it wasn’t my idea, it’s law enforcement reality. Which, of course, we both already know.
“You have to,” I repeat.
“In some cases, that may be correct, Char-lie,” Consuela says. I can hear the sneer as she drags out my first name. “But in this one, you’re wrong. She confessed. It’s a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.” She looks at me challengingly, wondering if I’ll fall for excuse number three.
I won’t. “Consuela, look. We can go back and forth over this all day. Or not. But whichever. Your office will have to hand over the photos.”
“You said in the lobby—you indicated you had some documents.” Consuela is not going down without a fight, and has fallen back on the “change the subject” method. “You said this was about the Sweeney arrest.”
“It is about the Sweeney arrest,” Franklin says.
The room goes quiet.
I watch Consuela’s chest rise and fall as she calculates her next move, her buttons even more in jeopardy. Without exchanging a glance, Franklin and I know we’ve won this battle. We also know we don’t need to say another word. All we have to do is wait.
“I’ll get tech,” she says. And with a flounce of curls, she sweeps out of the room.
“Tech?” I ask, watching the conference room door click closed.
“Perhaps the lineup photos are JPEG files on computer disk,” Franklin theorizes. “She’s got to get the techies to burn us a copy. But Charlotte, talk to me about those pictures. I thought we were here about the tape.”
“Well, here’s what I was thinking,” I say. “And that Police Chief magazine made me all the more suspicious.” I hop onto the conference table and stare down at the institutionally neutral carpeting, examining the shadowy patterns cast through the window blinds.
“Remember, Rankin and Will said the witnesses in the bar identified Dorinda from her picture.” I pause and look back at Franklin. “Let me ask you. What’s your understanding of how they got that ID?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by how, ” Franklin says. “The police showed witnesses a picture of, well, I suppose, it would be pictures, plural, of Dorinda, and a few other people. To see if anyone picked her out. The usual. A lineup.”
“Correct,” I say, nodding. “But has anyone told us they used a lineup? Anyone ever said that word? Maybe we just assumed it, because that’s what the cops are supposed to do. But what if they just showed one shot, a photo of Dorie? Because they suspected her, figured it was her, so might as well confirm it?”
There’s a sharp rap on the door, then whoever’s knocking opens it without waiting for our response. I scoot myself down from the table, briefly wondering how long whoever is out there had been out there.
A taut trip wire of energy strides in. Shoulders courtesy of Gold’s Gym. Suit courtesy Signore Armani. Attitude courtesy Clint Eastwood. His hand, still white-knuckle tight on the doorknob, claims all this as his territory, and us as his prisoners. A thin black cord around his neck shows off a daunting array of what must be security clearance badges. I read one
I hold it out to her, hoping she won’t accuse me of petty larceny. She doesn’t make a move to take it, so I place it on the conference table. Not guilty.
“There’s a whole feature article about police lineups. I leafed through it while we were waiting. It includes a lot of background about photo array evidence. You know?”
I look at her encouragingly, as if I really want her to answer. She doesn’t say a word, but gives me a bitter little gesture to continue.
I flip open the magazine and point to a page. “After conviction, photos are public records. You have to keep them. And you have to let us see them.” I shrug, to let her know it wasn’t my idea, it’s law enforcement reality. Which, of course, we both already know.
“You have to,” I repeat.
“In some cases, that may be correct, Char-lie,” Consuela says. I can hear the sneer as she drags out my first name. “But in this one, you’re wrong. She confessed. It’s a breach of attorney-client confidentiality.” She looks at me challengingly, wondering if I’ll fall for excuse number three.
I won’t. “Consuela, look. We can go back and forth over this all day. Or not. But whichever. Your office will have to hand over the photos.”
“You said in the lobby—you indicated you had some documents.” Consuela is not going down without a fight, and has fallen back on the “change the subject” method. “You said this was about the Sweeney arrest.”
“It is about the Sweeney arrest,” Franklin says.
The room goes quiet.
I watch Consuela’s chest rise and fall as she calculates her next move, her buttons even more in jeopardy. Without exchanging a glance, Franklin and I know we’ve won this battle. We also know we don’t need to say another word. All we have to do is wait.
“I’ll get tech,” she says. And with a flounce of curls, she sweeps out of the room.
“Tech?” I ask, watching the conference room door click closed.
“Perhaps the lineup photos are JPEG files on computer disk,” Franklin theorizes. “She’s got to get the techies to burn us a copy. But Charlotte, talk to me about those pictures. I thought we were here about the tape.”
“Well, here’s what I was thinking,” I say. “And that Police Chief magazine made me all the more suspicious.” I hop onto the conference table and stare down at the institutionally neutral carpeting, examining the shadowy patterns cast through the window blinds.
“Remember, Rankin and Will said the witnesses in the bar identified Dorinda from her picture.” I pause and look back at Franklin. “Let me ask you. What’s your understanding of how they got that ID?”
“I’m not sure what you mean by how, ” Franklin says. “The police showed witnesses a picture of, well, I suppose, it would be pictures, plural, of Dorinda, and a few other people. To see if anyone picked her out. The usual. A lineup.”
“Correct,” I say, nodding. “But has anyone told us they used a lineup? Anyone ever said that word? Maybe we just assumed it, because that’s what the cops are supposed to do. But what if they just showed one shot, a photo of Dorie? Because they suspected her, figured it was her, so might as well confirm it?”
There’s a sharp rap on the door, then whoever’s knocking opens it without waiting for our response. I scoot myself down from the table, briefly wondering how long whoever is out there had been out there.
A taut trip wire of energy strides in. Shoulders courtesy of Gold’s Gym. Suit courtesy Signore Armani. Attitude courtesy Clint Eastwood. His hand, still white-knuckle tight on the doorknob, claims all this as his territory, and us as his prisoners. A thin black cord around his neck shows off a daunting array of what must be security clearance badges. I read one
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